


Two Years

by fandomsandfanfics



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomsandfanfics/pseuds/fandomsandfanfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Years pass between the Fall and Sherlock's return, unexplored by the BBC show. During these two years, Sherlock must dismantle Moriarty's remaining network, fight villains for his life, remain undercover, and protect John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Watson

"You were the best man, the most human...human being, I have ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told a lie..."

The words flowed through Sherlock's mind, rushing, washing his vision away, drowning him in an ocean of bitter tears. 

"John," he whispered, face silent as the black gravestone, "John..."

"Just one more miracle," John's soft voice faded through his mind again "Just one more miracle for me, Sherlock... Don't...be....dead."

Sherlock's hands tightened into determined fists inside his pockets.

"I promise I'll keep you safe, John," he vowed, "I promise I'll come back for you." 

He sighed, turning to leave. If that was what it took, he would dismantle Moriarty's entire network to protect his best friend. 

\---------------

"Sherlock Holmes is coming."

"I know!" Sebastian snapped back without turning to look at his assistant. 

"Do you have a plan, sir?" The worker persisted. 

"Of course I have f---ing plan!" Seb cried, turning to face the man, "But I -NOT YOU-- am the boss here, so you have to trust me." 

"Yes sir."

As soon as the man was out the door, Seb's menacing expression melted. No, he didn't have a plan, because JIM always had the plan, JIM always knew what to do. 

"I beat Jim," Seb heard Sherlock's voice in his head, "I solved his puzzle, and I won't stop there. You can't hide in New York anymore, Sebastian Moran. I'll beat your game too."

"No you won't, you bastard," Sebastian snarled under his breath. He may not have been as smart as Jim, but there was one thing he knew. He would NEVER...EVER die by the hand of Sherlock Holmes. 

Spinning his chair to face the computer screen, Sebastian touched the Bluetooth in his ear. 

"Morgan," he commanded quietly, "Get suited up. We're going to have a battle." 

\------------

"Sherlock!" John cried, whiskey slurring the words on his tongue. "Sherlock! Sher..."

He could see that long, pale face in his mind, the piercing blue eyes, the high, cutting cheekbones. 

But then he was falling again, coat blowing in the wind, slipping...slipping away. And the pain was more than he could bear, more than any whiskey could numb...even more than the pain in his arm... 

Mycroft shook his head, eyebrows furrowed as he watched the footage from his hidden camera. Poor Watson, he was a good fellow, and this certainly wasn't going to end well for him. All the signs of suicide were there-- depression, anger, boredom, even the cuts in his arm... Mycroft knew that he needed a solution--immediately. 

"Mary!" He called to his agent in the other room, "I have something I need you to do."

\--------

Mary Morstan took a deep breath, looking in the mirror once more as she put on her coat. She'd taken a lot of undercover jobs, even a lot of dangerous ones, but this one scared her more than the others. This time she had to get close to someone. This time she was responsible for saving a life. 

But before she even had time to think, she found herself sitting on the tube next to John Watson. 

"Hello," she said, "I wonder, could you tell me which stop is the Owens restaurant by?"

"Owens restaurant?" He replied , a surprised smile crossing his face. Even in his state, he couldn't resist someone this pretty...and friendly. Especially since...it was, well...the first real friendly conversation he'd had since...you know...

"That's right by my house. I can walk you there if you like," he said with a smile. 

Mary's eyes stayed fixed on his, and her flirtatious smile couldn't possibly convey her state of mind. 

"I'd love it," she said, barely hearing herself over her beating heart. Panic, she thought, trying to classify the strange feeling. It was more like--fear. Fear, because this was not going the way she had planned. His eyes weren't supposed to be so blue, his face wasn't supposed to be so...beautiful. 

"It's right over there," John Watson said pointing to the building on the corner. "You meeting friends?" 

"No," Mary replied, blushing a little. Her eyes were fixed on his face, almost willing him to look at her again, and their arms were dangerously close--almost touching through their winter coats. 

"I'm going alone," she continued, "I wanted to have a nice dinner...but...well, I didn't find anyone to go with." 

John didn't know what he was doing, what he was doing- but suddenly he found himself asking Mary if...you know,...maybe she'd like some....company? 

He guessed he just needed someone to talk to, and her friendly smile just invited his words in. Soon they were smiling, laughing, he was even telling her about his cases with Sherlock. He couldn't help noticing that she was the only woman who'd been interested in the subject that occupied his whole world. 

Floating on his ocean-blue eyes, Mary felt herself going deeper and deeper, finding John's life, his loves, his secrets. Exciting? Terrifying? Lovely? She wasn't sure. 

But suddenly his words stopped and his eyes looked sadly up at her, his ocean eyes became rain clouds, barely containing tears. 

Half-consciously, Mary's hand slid across the table to touch his, hoping to bring a little warmth to his heart. And then her mouth started talking almost without her head. Telling him stories about her childhood, telling him secrets. 

And her brain let out a silent prayer, one that she never expected. Please let me be your new best friend, John Watson. Please let me be your Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Murder at Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Years Eve, and Sebastian Moran is providing the entertainment. Will Sherlock be able to solve the mystery before the clock strikes twelve?

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. Text alert. 

"John could you get--" he absentmindedly started before realizing that he was alone. 

Dejected, he pulled his phone out of his own pocket, but his face molded into a mask of concentration as he read the words on the screen. 

"In with the old and out with the new as they say! But you had better be attending the right ball because the year isn't the only thing that dies when the clock strikes 12."

But it didn't make Sherlock's heart beat faster like the next text he got. 

"Aaaahhhhhh" His phone released an orgasmic moan that could only mean one person. 

"Hurry up Prince Charming! Your pumpkin carriage is waiting outside. Let's have dinner."

Sherlock's brain raced. He had about a minute to prepare. A ball would represent a nice party...he threw on his bed suit, checking in the mirror to make sure his hair was alright. Throwing on his coat with its customary scarf, he was out the door in no time, heading towards the silver Porsche parked outside of his house. 

Sliding into the back, he found himself seated next to the woman herself. 

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," her silky voice rippled through his ears, "finally you're having dinner with me." 

"Yes, Miss Adler," Sherlock turned around to face her. Emotionless. Expressionless. He had practiced this many a time, just in the tiniest hope that he might meet her again. This time, it was absolutely crucial, because the the woman was a piece in Sebastian Moran's murder, but had to find out WHICH piece. 

\--------

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as he followed Irene through the door. Music, lights, and there were PEOPLE. Everywhere. If it was hard to look for clues with Irene around, it would be even harder in this room full of distraction. 

Allowing himself to be led by her soft hand, he proceeded to the middle of the floor. 2 hours to midnight. 2 hours to solve the case. 

Sherlock stood still for a moment, cataloging the details of the room with one glance. Big ballroom. Must have been rented for the occasion. No sponsor's name; must have been an individual. Balance of probability said this individual was affiliated with Moriarty's network. A stage in the front said there was going to be entertainment. Something was wrong here, SOMETHING would give him the clue. But he would have to find it, in a misplaced letter, or a person, or a secret message. But Irene was moderately clever, so he decided to pass the time. 

"So, Miss Adler," he said, turning abruptly to face her. "Why are we here?"

"It's New Year's Eve," she said with a smile, "Why not?"

"Because there's PEOPLE. And lights. And I don't like that sort of thing," he said sourly. 

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, and Sherlock felt a chill in his spine as she said his name. "Maybe you should try, you know, going out of your comfort zone again. For a genius crime fighter, I think you're a bit of a coward."

"I'm not a coward," he said fiercely. 

"What, you think I can't deduce things too?" Irene replied, "You're not alone, Sherlock, and that stone face of yours is more revealing than you think. You don't want to go out because you miss something. Something that...you've--you've always wanted to but never have." Irene's voice sped up as she talked, speeding on her train of thought. 

"There's something you've always wanted to do, and going out reminds you of it, but you never could do it, so now you won't." She finished. 

Heart beating fast, she looked him forcefully in his bright blue eyes. "Am I right?" She asked, trying hard to keep her forceful confidence. 

Sherlock turned to her, expressionless as ever. But then she saw his face melt, she saw the slightest flash of fear, and then it molded into a confident smirk. 

"Let's dance," he said. 

\-------------

Irene Adler was swept off her feet. Literally. Her hands in Sherlock’s, his strong arms spun her around. Taking care to land her feet gracefully, she looked up into his eyes.

 

“Do you know how to dance?” He asked, his rich voice resonating through her ears.

 

She nodded shyly before returning her confident smirk. “You’re in luck, Mr. Holmes. I used to be a dancer.”

 

A shiver went up her spine as she saw Sherlock’s smile fill with joy, an his gaze overflow with more emotion than she had thought him capable of. It bubbled like a stream, rushed like the waterfall, and trickled through every inch of his body until it reached her. Feeling the electric rush surge through her body, her eyes flew open, she felt alive, and…the dance had begun.

 

Irene took the first step. She’d never meant to dance again, but something in Sherlock’s manner, his shyly emerging smile, the hunger in his eyes, made her sure that it was the only right thing to do. His ease in following her immediately assured her heart that it had done right. One more step, the flow of the dance, his strong arms encircling her, his face alight with love and passion, and Irene felt the energy pulsing through her veins like she had never felt before.

 

Sherlock took control, guiding Irene into a graceful pirouette. Black dress like a raven, she spread her wings, and took flight, swooping down to perch in his arms. Her long gown spread around her like rose petals in her pirouette her black stilettos nearly lifting off the ground, her eyes lost in the flow, the movement, Sherlock became lost in her. Bringing her body in close to his, he felt the energy surge jumping off her, the electricity connecting when their hands touched.

 

“You’re quite good,” he whispered in her ear.

 

But his raven hardly need a push to fly. Lifting off the ground, she found herself carried by his arms, flying free in his sky-blue eyes, watching the heads of the crowd from above as she spun around, leg lifted high in the air in all the grace of her twenty years ballet training. Looking on the crowd, she felt power like she had never felt it before, joy, like nothing but love could give her.

 

As soon as he set her down, it was Sherlock’s turn. Taking his turn to spin, he felt like a child again, dancing around in his bedroom, carefully locking the door to make sure Mycroft wouldn’t see him. Don’t be to loud, his child self thought to him.

 

But he didn’t need to be quiet here. That was the beauty of a crowd, your secrets were hidden by the overflow of others in the multitude. Here in the crowd, with only Irene for a partner, he could dance as much as he wanted, and he could appreciate it like he never had before.

 

With the precision of a marksman and the strength of a god, Irene’s consulting detective was more graceful than she could have imagined. She felt herself flying again, feather light, but this time it was even more special, even more powerful than before.

 

Body straight as a temple pillar, her arms outstretched like the great wings of Isis, she could almost feel the power of the goddess living within her. Sherlock’s strong hands held her waist like a high priest, holding his idol up for all to adore. And the people in the crowd, oh, how their heads turned and their eyes looked up in admiration.

 

And for this one moment, flying high above the ground, Irene had a taste of everything she wanted. The admiration was sweet on her tongue, the respect warm in her throat, and the love was cool and fresh, washing away years of disrespect and damage.

 

Feet landing lightly on the ground once again, Irene looked up at Sherlock and knew that the feeling was shared. Alive in their long awaited passion, their gleaming spirits wove together as one entity, a glittering crystal tapestry of all that was beautiful.

 

In this momentary escape from reality, this beautiful crystal ball of fantasy, Irene did the only thing that seemed right to do. In this rare moment, it only felt right to…kiss. 

 

\------------------

Irene stared up at Sherlock's eyes, her hands still gripping his. She could herself shaking, trying to fend off the shock...and tears. It was a familiar feeling, this coming down. The lull after a kiss, a performance, a rush of energy when she would remember that it was all just a dream. She wasn't really in love, she'd remind herself. 

Sherlock molded his hands into fists in his pockets trying so hard to let his face betray nothing. But his shock immediately turned to focus as he discovered that his pockets were no longer empty. 

"Wh-where'd you get that?" Irene demanded, watching the Sherlock pull the bracelet out of his pocket. A chilling sight--it was a black armband, much like the one Sebastian had given her to wear tonight, except that this one was lace...and spotted with bloodstains.

Sherlock began to analyze it instantaneously, scanning with all his senses. The bloodstains accompanied a rip through the middle- the victim had been stabbed with...a small but sharp instrument- pocketknife probably, not cut very deep, but in the crucial vein. The murderer had calculated just the right place so as to murder the victim without cutting to far. The bracelet smelled of alcohol, and the cut was precise - the victim must have been drunk so as not to feel it. Blond haired as well, he noticed as he picked a hair off the outside. So he would be looking by the bar for a drunk woman, probably passed out with blonde hair and a black or black lace dress. Also a small cut in her right wrist. 

"Gotta go."

Irene watched as Sherlock turned abruptly away from her and walked towards...the bar? He must have found a clue on the bracelet. She followed him silently, like a black cat, watching intently to see what he'd found. 

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the floor near the bar. Relatively empty- he could see no body or signs of struggle. There was nowhere to hide a body here unless...it must be behind a door. 

And then he saw it. A red lighted EXIT sign that should have been obvious. A perfect hiding place, concealed in plain sight. Every building had one of these, so the patrons would be too preoccupied or drunk to notice. But not Sherlock. 

Making his way towards the door, Sherlock noticed the signs of struggle. There were scratches on the door- the victim had clung to it in the struggle, and there was a black, high-heeled shoe flung carelessly aside. Almost too carelessly to be an accident. This murderer was leaving clues. 

Irene watched Sherlock walk to the door, and saw his body go rigid when he opened it. She knew he had found the corpse. 

The black door swung open silently passing Sherlock's motionless hand. His racing brain stopped for a moment, nearly confused by the picture he saw in front of him. Two women, not one stood in front of him, and neither of them was dead. 

The first woman bent over the other one, the folds of her winter-blue dress covering the victim's face. Sherlock examined the body of the woman on the floor, following the eyes of the woman in the blue dress. There was the cut in her arm- definitely the right woman. But the cut wasn't big enough, and there wasn't enough blood- so something else was killing. Her body twitched- it was reacting. So it was poison then. Poison on the blade of the pocketknife. 

"Harriet, listen to me--" the woman in the blue dress started.

As the woman moved, the folds of her blue dress swept away, revealing the face of the dying woman. Sandy blonde-ish hair, blue eyes, and a striking resemblance to...

"John!" Sherlock's brain could not catch up to his mouth quite fast enough to stifle the small word that came out as a gasp in his throat. Harriet. Harry. Harry Watson. 

Suddenly the woman in the blue dress looked up abruptly upon hearing Sherlock's voice. Before a word was out of his mouth, her gun was in her hand, aimed carefully at his chest. 

"Don't you touch her!" She said. 

"Oh," replied Sherlock, "So you think I'm the murderer. Good guess, but not quite." 

He extended his hand. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."

"Mary Morstan," she said cautiously, shaking his hand, but not for a second letting him out of her gun's aim. 

"Who is this woman?" Sherlock asked, eyes focused and examining. Well not WHO, but Mary would know what he meant. 

"Harriet Watson," Mary replied, "Sister of John Watson, a friend of mine--"

"You know John Watson?" Mary made a mental note of the jealousy in his voice. 

"Yes," she replied nonchalantly, "but that's beside the point. This woman, his sister, is in grave danger. Poison's already in the bloodstream- we need to get her to the hospital now of she dies."

"I'll help you carry her," Sherlock said. Upon seeing the note of protest in Mary's eyes, he added, "She's dying. You have no choice but to trust me."

Mary nodded. "Fair enough." She began to dial 999 on her phone as Sherlock picked up the limp near-corpse of Harry Watson. 

Carrying Harry Watson's body, Sherlock found himself once again in that treacherous maze of music, lights, and laughing people. Tsunami thoughts bombarded him, pushing the doors of his mind palace, but he forced them shut. Just focus, he told himself. Block it put of your mind, you've only got to make it to the door. Quickly, he turned his head around to make sure Mary was behind him, but her face made him stop. 

"Wh-what is it?" He demanded, "Has she died?"

Mary shook her head, eyes still wide with fear. Silently and slowly, she raised her finger, pointing it straight at Sherlock's jacket. And then Sherlock looked down and saw perfectly the red sniper dots she was pointing at. 

Brain racing into danger mode, he set down the body so quickly he almost dropped it. 

"Mary," he said, "Go on. Take her to the hospital, make sure she's okay. It appears my business here is not finished."

Mary nodded, face calmly resolved. As she picked up the body Sherlock noted the surprising ease with which she did it. Interesting. 

"Goodbye," she whispered as she passed him, "and good luck."

\------

Judging from the trajectory and the angle of the red light that fell on his chest, Sherlock could tell that his pursuer, a certain /sniper/, that is, was on the balcony. 

His steps took short, calculated distances, pacing with his thoughts. This was a new game, a new adversary. Sebastian Moran was a pillar of Moriarty's network, but he was not Moriarty. He enjoyed the theatrics as well, yes, but he was also more physically fit, more wary, and an especially talented sniper. As Sherlock's steps drew him up the stairs, closer to his villain, his thoughts drew him no nearer to resolution. Each step brought a new theory, a new expectation, only adding to the confusion. 

Sebastian took a deep thought, lowering his gun as he saw his adversary's curly hair rising into his vision. His heart couldn't help but beat faster, and he couldn't keep that four letter word out of the corner of his vision. Fear. Even Jim hadn't been able to beat Sherlock, and he was not Jim. But he knew at least one part of his murder was safe. She was down on the floor, lost in the crowd, while her consulting detective was...otherwise engaged. *Goodbye, Irene,* he thought with a smirk. 

"Hello, sir," Sherlock said, cold british politeness intact, retaining an icy exterior as he met the green eyes of the blond-haired sniper on the balcony. "Sebastian Moran, I presume."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sebastian held out his hand. Oh, god, /how/ did Jim do this? 

Sherlock sensed Sebastian's discomfort immediately. He was an outdoor man, a sniper used to field work. He was an expert at his trade, but not used to being boss. 

"Why Harry? Why Harriet Watson?" Sherlock decided to take the direct approach. 

"What?" Sebastian was taken aback. Had sherlock really fallen for that? 

"Why did you murder Harriet Watson. You told me you would kill someone, and I've seen her body."

"I told you I would murder someone at midnight. But it isn't midnight. And I haven't murdered anyone."

He saw Sherlock's eyes calculated and sighed. "I'm a sniper. If I wanted Harriet Watson dead, she'd be underground already."

"Then who are you murdering?"

"Come on, you're /Sherlock Holmes./" replied Sebastian. Maybe he was getting better at this talking thing. "I want to figure you it out. But I warn you, you've only got five minutes and me to talk to."

"Okay," said Sherlock, timing his voice with the hand of the enormous clock on the wall opposite them, "The game starts...now."

Sherlock looked at the clock, worry edging into the corner of his mind. Five minutes, and an unexpected situation. Furthermore, somebody was going to die. He examined Sebastian's face with his eyes, hoping for clues in his rivals gestures, expressions, anything, really. 

Sebastian Moran. Pretty confident man, good at hiding emotions by his natural cold demeanor, but he had just lost his partner. He couldn't possibly fathom what it would be to lose John, but he knew it would be pretty damn mind altering. It would bring up emotion in even himself. And, balance of probability, the most likely emotion was anger. 

Sebastian felt his anger rising, swelling, like his tears boiling up in his heart. He was glad of what he'd done, and he was glad he was doing it right now. It was only justice to give her what she'd given him--pain beyond measure. 

He could see her now, in her sleek, black dress, sidling up to him, kissing him like she had kissed Jim. Sebastian had felt nothing on her lips but poison, why had Jim kept coming back for more? Her heart was black like a snake, but she was weak like any woman, and he would not have her even now, taste from the lips of those she had never deserved. She had even kissed /Sherlock/! I mean, what kind of woman could, or would do that?

A lovely woman, Sherlock thought, it must have been. From the disgust in his eyes and the discomfort on his lips, he knew Sebastian had kissed her too, but not out of love, or even lust. It had all been a plan--oh, he was good! Sherlock would have to make a mental note of that. But why was he angry?

"Hey, Seb, give me a minute."

"Yeah, sure." Coolly, Sebastian walked away, pretending he didn't care, but once he was out of Jim's line of vision (he had calculated) he couldn't help but watch. 

"Miss Adler, I presume," Jim's silky voice was soft as his touch on the woman's arm, just as his lips had been soft on Seb's for one just that one moment. 

Seb had watched his love kiss the Woman, reliving his own kiss in his vivid imagination. His own, rough hands ran up Jim's back as Jim's hands had ran along his arms, reaching his back, and pulling him closer. His heart beat faster as their faces drew closer, his blonde stubble mixing with Jim's smooth, clean shaven jaw. Their lips that met, sending Seb's mind away, masking the tear that had run down his face. A hint of sadness in his perfect moment, because he knew that nothing with Jim was ever permanent. 

The promise of love. The pain of loss. The revenge of an angry lover. Sherlock could see it all in his head now. Don't be so /obvious/, Sebastian. Sebastian had been not only Jim's partner in crime, but also his lover. 

Sebastian and Jim would have been a passionate pair of lovers, but also controlling. Neither one would have let the other out of their sight for fear of the last thing they held in their madness. But Seb's madness had been completed first. He had watched his lover walk over his fences, outrun his guns, laugh at his death threats...and find a new love. 

Seb had been driven mad, with hatred, with rage, with neglect, with jealousy, and with the deepest pain he knew until he had sworn to kill the one who caused it. In his mind, Sebastian was writing a story, and she was the villain, poisoning the world, poisoning his mind, and he was the only one left to vanquish her. In short, Seb had gone mad. And his whole world had turned upside down when Jim had kissed...

"Irene!" Sherlock gasped, looking frantically into the crowd. Goddamnit, why had left her? Where was she?

Sebastian smiled. "Getting slow, now, are we?" Sherlock heard him say. 

But more importantly, Sherlock heard the clocks strike twelve. 

\------------------

Irene put her hand to her head, pulling away from her handsome dance partner. 

"Excuse me....I'll be...I'll be back," she stammered, shuffling quickly away. 

Her dance partner...Roberto was his name?...had barely a second to consider his confusion before the hoard of anxious girls descended on him. Good...because....Irene REALLY wasn't feeling good. 

Clutching her fading head, she fell backwards, leaning against a pillar for support. She felt faint, and she felt fear. She could fight anything she could see, but when it was inside her, she was powerless. 

Knowing herself, it was probably poison. Deadly. She'd been near death before, she supposed she didn't hate it...but not here. Alone in this huge crowd...where was Sherlock? 

Her mind clung to his face, clawing, searching to answer that one question. Sherlock? 

"Sherlock!" Her voice put life to her last question. It was a desperate shriek, but he probably wouldn't hear head. But then...leaning backwards on the pillar....slowly sliding to the floor...Irene couldn't think of anything else to say. 

Sherlock heard Irene call his name, and his feet flew, carrying him at light speed to her magnetic voice. He could feel Sebastian's eyes boring through his back, laughing, mocking him, but she was the only thing that mattered right now. 

He'd heard the voice coming from the left side of the room. Near the back. Run, Sherlock, she's dying! 

No one had heard her, not in her desperation. In a room full of people...had not a SINGLE one noticed her...dying?! Too busy with their merriment, she supposed, her tears carving regrets in her smooth cheeks. She'd never wanted it to happen like this... Oh, lord, if you're even there, if there's even anything... Please don't do this. Please... Falling back, she felt something catch her, strong like a safety net from heaven...

Sherlock was there just in time. Just as Irene began to fall backwards, his arms were under her, holding her tight, holding her safe. Poison. Deadly. From... He peeled the black velvet band from her arm and saw...blood. Blood, covering her thin wrist. Blood, soaking through the velvet. Blood, dripping to the floor. Black and blood, mixing like the paints on the rotting canvas of an evil mind. 

Blood... Suddenly Sherlock felt a pain in his neck---a stab. A needle--was someone drugging him? He dropped Irene's body in panic, and tried to turn around. But he felt himself falling, vision going--he could almost see the face laughing behind his back. 

"Did you miss me?" It said.


End file.
